You Know How It Goes
There may be a day where there's nothing left to talk about.
A cold day with yawns pouring out of every crack
in every wall. When I may be under. When I've lied
it was to myself too. The garden of roses I'm never sending
was larger than the mailtruck. Also I have no money.
There may be a time sometime when the illusion may crack
that everyone is something, or everyone is nothing, or
one or all of us is nothing or something.
That day I will slouch as usual and drink cold water as usual
even though it's cold out and in. And that day
I want nothing, for what's there to want? That day
the ages may plop like a skipping stone done skipping
and sink into the black and static lake. And I don't know
what else. Maybe the geese will stop shitting
in every public park. Maybe not. Maybe we'll go barefoot
anyway. There may be a time that sinks into images, there may be
frost on my collar, dew on your sleeve, sweet basil on my head,
a rock balancing on your delicate foot. That
day may happen,
don't do nothing. I mean. Do. I mean. Let me talk
when no words come out, I'll paint a picture
with just my lips, even if there's
no air anymore, I swear.